


Air Supply I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-07-10
Updated: 2001-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Ooops, he did it again.





	Air Supply I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Air Supply I: She Never Heard Me Call by Mik

TITLE: Air Supply/She Never Heard Me Call  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Ooops, he did it again.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: Here we go again, and this time's for the guy who gave me the music.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop. If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

She Never Heard Me Call  
by Mik

It's been an interesting wedding. Maggie Scully's religiously tidy house is awash in laughing friends, smug cousins, and disbelieving aunties who never thought Scully would wed anything more than her career. There are too many candles, too many flowers and some of the uncles have had too many drinks. There's something about the whole arrangement that seems too well coordinated for a thrown together at the last minute wedding. It looks as if it had been planned, purchased and packed in a box years ago, kept in the closet in the hall, labeled IN CASE OF WEDDING. 

The groom looks like he just stepped off the prow of the Love Boat, navy blue and dozens of gold buttons and other shiny things. He looks admirable . for a captain. Scully looks . I know the word radiant is trite, but she really does. I've always seen her as cute in a sort of buttoned down, take no prisoners sort of way. Seeing her now, in lace and curls and giggles . well, that just isn't my Scully. 

Of course, she isn't my Scully. I was standing right there as she made those soft assertions to love, honor and cooperate with Captain America, or whatever the hell his name is. And the fact that he's blonde, blue-eyed and built like a Greek god isn't lost on this pea green psychologist. God, Scully . couldn't you find someone even more perfect? Even less like me? Still, he seems like a likable sort and he certainly has brought a sparkle to those wise blue eyes that I could only dream about. 

It was a shock to see her walk in this morning, out of nowhere. I thought it was over. I didn't think I could still feel that rush that went to my heart and balls. And for a moment, when I realized that she was getting married, I felt as if both had been cut off with a dull knife and a sharp glance. For a moment, I hung in mid-air, a moment away from collapse and bleeding to hopelessness. But then I realized it didn't hurt so bad. Then I realized it didn't hurt much at all. Then I realized, in a small way, I was relieved.

It wasn't until she left, after extracting promises that we would attend the big event, that I began to feel guilty for the relief. And then I was irritated. Maybe even angry. Why was she so damned happy without me? Who gave her that right? And since when did I become her best friend? There is nothing more fatal to a man's sense of desirability than female friendship. 'Let's be friends' is the death knell to sexual ego. And if I was her best friend, why did it take her a year to contact me? Why didn't she call me, tell me she was getting married, ask my opinion, my advice . my permission?

And yet, there was a very good reason I remained stoically silent when the priest asked the gathering to speak or forever hold its collective peace. He was sitting two rows back, rigid and stern, those hot eyes boring holes in my back. We haven't had a chance to speak since she left. We don't spend a lot of time alone in his office so I had only time to give his hand a squeeze and scoot. We took separate cars to Mrs. Scully's house and, apart from some polite conversation during the prenuptial festivities, we haven't spoken. Oh, I know what he's thinking, sitting back there. He thought the minute Scully landed in my time zone, I'd lose him like a bad loan, marriage or no marriage. 

Hey, don't think that didn't cross my mind just a few short months ago. But give the guy credit, he somehow wormed his way into my heart and suddenly it was once again opened for business, with a big banner strung across it reading 'Under New Management'. And the only way I can explain it is to say that . he is. He is affectionate, he is funny and he is infinitely patient. A year into this topsy-turvy nursery rhyme and we have yet to perform THE act that would properly consummate our relationship. Yet he has never uttered a complaint, nor attempted to force the issue. It's hard not to fall for a guy like that. And he sleeps in sweats, drinks beer straight from the bottle, loves Thai food and pizza, and can give a killer backrub. Hell, I should be marrying HIM.

A little cheer has gone up during my ruminations and now Scully . or will she become Wilder? . turns to me with a smile that is unlike any Scully smile known in captivity and announces, "Well, Mulder, I did it."

"Yes, you did," I agree and no matter what anyone might think, my smile is genuine. "Congratulations . um . Wilder." I try the name out tentatively. 

She reacts with surprise and then a smile. "Oh, don't, Mulder. Coming from you that sounds . well . alien."

A hand lands possessively on her arm. "Let's make a toast, Dana." Another pair of blue eyes meet mine, and behind a tight smile there is such depth of feeling that I can't help feeling a bit singed.

For a moment, I bristle. I've been warned off. As if I'd chase another man's wife! Then I realize it doesn't make one iota of difference. I turn and search the small crowd. He is working his way toward me with two champagne flutes in hand. I smile to myself. Here is a man who looks as natural with two delicate pieces of long stemmed crystal as he does with two longneck beers. One of the great things about my guy is that he never looks out of place. Except . perhaps, in my bed. Well, I look out of place in my bed. 

I look toward the bride and her gilded groom. Would Scully look out of place in my bed? I close my eyes for just a moment to picture her there, lying back in the pillows, breathless and tousled, a glazed look of good loving in her eyes. No, not my Scully. My Scully had never been for more than embraces, tears and dreams. Yes, there is still a place empty in my heart where she left the door open as she left, but to actually touch her, take her . an involuntary shudder runs through me. In all my fantasies, I realize, I never get beyond the moment where I pull her into my arms and kiss her. 

I open my eyes and see that he is kissing her. I look away, look for the one I've been kissing for a year. I have to say, when I got over the initial shock of being kissed by a man, by my boss, then I liked it. He's got a warm firm mouth. He can be very gentle, sometimes playful, but I always sense that somewhere under the wire rims burns an unbridled passion that would sweep me away if I ever gave him the slightest encouragement. Maybe, I think, it's time I encourage him.

And why haven't I? Stupidity? Fear? Ignorance? All of the above. Stupidity I can't do anything about. But fear and ignorance I've never tolerated, in myself or in others. Drawing one of those cliche deep breaths that signal monumental resolve, I meet his gaze and incline my head slightly to the right, indicating a door to Maggie Scully's garden. It is time for some monumental encouragement.

He follows me, silent. He is not going to offer comment or sympathy. He merely hands me a glass.

I take it and wander the perimeters of the small enclosure, listening to laughter and cheers from inside. The air is misty and tingles the skin but there is the smell of roses blooming around the cinder block walls. I feel slightly trapped by my decision, not that I believe it is wrong, but that it is the first time in my adult life that I didn't know what the next step should be, where the next word should come from.

I glance again around the garden. There are some weeds springing up here and there, and fruit hangs heavy on the miniature trees. I suppose Maggie doesn't feel much like gardening these days. The wall farthest from the door is a small shrine. I've seen it before. Scully once told me this was a very important place for her in her teens and young adulthood. A stone figure of that apocryphal figure, the Blessed Virgin, stands, arms outstretched, a look of permanent peace/woe etched in her extremely Anglo features. Before her is an altar of stone with room for candles for each of the Scullys, but now there is only one candle. And it looks as if it hasn't been used for some time. "You know," I murmur, in grim amusement, "Scully and I used to argue about her all the time." I flick a glance up at him as he stands beside me. "You'd think cold, practical DOCTOR Scully would know better than to believe in virgin birth." I reach out to flick a bit of lichen from the virgin's face. 

He is quiet for a moment. Then he looks over his shoulder at the crowd inside. "Maybe if she had known how much you felt ."

I turn around, one hand thrust into a pocket, the other gripping none too gently a champagne glass. "I told her. I told her several times. She just never heard me."

He turns, and stands behind me. Not touching me, but the warmth of his body tells me he is there, behind me, going to catch me if I fall. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. "You know . I'm not." I sip champagne and watch the happy couple work the crowd. "Scully's . well . she's the perfect woman for me . but I'd never make her happy. And that wouldn't be fair, would it?"

He sighs. "That sounds like a lot of regret."

"Oh, it's not," I assure him and turn back to the statue. "Scully's the Blessed Virgin, in a way. Beautiful to think about, comforting to turn to, but not quite . real."

He surprises me by pulling out his old bulldog emblazoned lighter. "I believe in Mary, myself," he says quietly, lighting that solitary candle. 

I reach for the lighter, study it. The emblem is worn, but still clearly the proud mascot of the Marines. It's comforting to hold it in my hand, knowing this has been with him since the days and nightmares of a seemingly pointless war, in a place where he lost and found his life. I tuck it into my breast pocket. "No atheists in foxholes, huh?"

He snickers at my unintentional pun. "Could a devout agnostic ever be happy with a dyed in the wool born again believer?"

"Who says I'm an agnostic?" I protest. "I believe there's ." I glance up and the mist dances on my face. ". something up there. I don't know if it's God, or Buddha or . or Ronald McDonald. But there's something."

He's still chuckling. eH"Aliens?"

"Hey." I shrug again. "Maybe God made aliens and all."

For a while we are silent, watching the candle gutter and spit in the misty air. My belief in something more defined than a mystical chemistry lab made me think that . maybe . I was in this time and place for a reason. That he was here for a reason. Scully was my dream . and maybe this guy was my life. 

I sipped champagne. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Walt."

He was lost in the erratic flame. "Hmm?"

I emptied my glass in one gulp. "Will you marry me?"

\- END -

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Air Supply/Every Woman In the World  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. SC/O M/Sk implied. This story contains a suggestion of slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Men want a mother, a friend, a housekeeper, a whore . in short . every woman in the world.   
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: To my a-mum, the least girly female on the planet, who served as consultant for all the girly bits. Oh, Patrice, if you only knew why you were answering all those questions ...  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop. If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Every Woman In The World  
by Mik

Dr. Wilder, nee Scully, sat on the edge of the ornate tub in the ornate bath of the ornate hotel suite. She was even rather ornate herself, having been swathed in white fluffy lace and fineness as the old song went. She ran a brush through the thickness of reddish gold curls and contemplated the events of the day. It was silly, she knew, to be nervous about stepping out of that bath. Hardly a virgin when she met Captain Andy Wilder, the two had been lovers for six months . kicked over the traces her Aunt Gail had said. What a term!

But there was something different now. She had given herself before, willingly, even eagerly, but never with the sense that she couldn't get up in the morning and go home if things were less than satisfactory. But there was no getting up and going home tomorrow morning. And . where was home, after all? Not that Georgetown apartment she had made into the womb where she could hide from the world, tucked into her familiar bedroom, with its familiar shadows and her familiar fantasies --

None of that, she scolded mentally. I'm a married woman, and married women do NOT fantasize about other men, especially other men who are in love with other men.

Strange to think of Mulder in love with Assistant Director Skinner. No, just strange to think of Mulder in love. She realized that, aside from many fevered nights of imagined passion, she couldn't picture him gazing at anyone the way Andy gazed at her some nights when he thought she was asleep. The idea of Andy looking down at her in wonder made her smile. The idea of A.D. Skinner looking down at Mulder . well, that just made her laugh. Somehow she couldn't see wonder and tenderness on those stern features. He'd probably be staring at Mulder in bewilderment and trepidation. 

There was a knock at the door. It pushed open a crack. "Are you decent?"

"Come in," she said, standing up and putting the brush down on the marble vanity. 

Andy, in the bottom half of a truly hideous pair of pajamas, inched in, and sent his eyes around. "I feel so privileged, invited into the inner sanctum of femininity." He picked up a bottle of shower gel and sniffed. And then a bottle of splash. And then a bar of soap. "This all smells the same."

She nodded and reached for the negligee that matched her gown. 

"Why?" He looked at her, with a hint of that bewilderment that she had just imagined on A.D. Skinner's face. "What do you DO with all this stuff, anyway?"

She couldn't help laughing as she reached for the soap and eased it from his hands. "Oh, Andy, you don't really want to know. It will spoil the magic."

"What?" He was laughing. "Do you mean to tell me my oh, so practical doctor wife believes in magic?"

She began to gather all her bath accoutrement together. "Oh, absolutely."

He leaned down to press his brow to hers. "Wanna' make some magic, wife?"

There was something in his voice, just a certain note he dipped down to that made parts of her body grow warm, then hot. "I'd like that."

He took her hand and led her from the bath out into the bedroom. A fire was filling the otherwise darkened room with an auburn glow. Before the ridiculously ornate faux Victorian hearth, Andy had spread a blanket, two pillows, a champagne bottle in an ice bucket and two plastic champagne glasses. On one pillow there rested a single red rose. 

She gulped back tears of appreciation, gratitude and a tiny bit of frustration. Why had she lived this long before having a man leave a rose on her pillow? "Oh, Andy," she sighed, for want of deeper words. 

It was sufficient for him. He dropped into a cross-legged crouch and poured champagne. "A toast, then." He held up the glass. "Here's to ." he paused, brow furrowing up like a thoughtful puppy, ". every woman in the world."

She took the glass . feeling the lump in her throat dissipate. "That's not exactly --"

"And that, among them all, I was lucky enough to find you," he finished, and leaned in for a kiss.

She felt herself blush from perm to pedicure. Dana Katherine Scully Wilder was not a woman given to romantic notions or flights of female fancy, but Andy somehow was making this wedding night by Woman's Day seem, if not perfectly sensible, then at least not unbearably sweet.

The thoughts must have told themselves on her face, for he studied her introspective expression anxiously. "Did I go overboard?" he asked much like a small boy wanting to know his cutouts and paste presentation was a suitable tribute to a beloved mother. "I only wanted it to be memorable."

She might never be a mother, but that did not preclude her from the genetic gift of that oh, so reassuring maternal smile. "Andy, it's lovely . perfect." She tried to imagine Mulder trying to arrange a honeymoon. Romance would be conspicuously absent, as the bridal bed might well be covered in ancient files and evidence bags. In fact, Mulder's idea of romance would be merely showing up on time to get married.

Andy seemed to read those thoughts, as well. He settled back and reached for the bottle to refill her glass. "You should have told me Mulder was gay. It would have saved me a lot of sleepless nights."

"Who said he was gay?" she protested. It startled her that she felt a need to protect Mulder's image, even now.

"Well, isn't he?" Andy smiled quizzically. "The way he was glomming that jarhead, he sure appeared to be."

'Jarhead'? She was surprised by the depth of Andy's perception. "I didn't know . at least, not until recently. I don't think Mulder knew," she added thoughtfully. "But I don't think the 'glomming' was entirely one sided."

"Jealous?" he teased, not so lightly.

She matched his smile. "No more than you."

"Hey, I own my jealousy," he said evenly. "Gay or straight, he means a great deal to you. I'm tempted to request permission to take you with me just so I don't leave you alone in DC with him."

"There is nothing to fear from that sector," she soothed. "He and I spent many, MANY nights in close quarters and we were never once tempted to fraternize." Well . he wasn't. "And now I think that jarhead, as you refer to my former boss, would probably tear me limb from limb if I even cast a longing glance in his direction." She emptied her glass. "Besides, my heart is already packed and ready to follow you."

He smiled and quickly claimed another kiss. "I only want to make you happy, Dana."

She was immeasurably touched by the simple yet heartfelt sentiment, so different from Mulder's snide cynicism and righteous speeches. "You do, Andy, you do." And therein was the secret. Mulder didn't know what happiness was. And Andy wanted to give it to her with both hands. Well . she reflected as she let Andy fill her glass one more time . perhaps Mulder has learned some happiness. He seemed so . so settled today. She lifted her glass. "To every man in the world. Thank you for sending me the best."

He accepted her toast. "Who knows . maybe Mulder will find the second best," he said with a wicked little grin.

She set her plastic cup down on the hearth and lay back into the pillows. Rose in hand, she reached up for him. "I think he found the best one for him." She laughed softly as she felt his weight and warmth against her. "I think we both did."

\- END -

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Air Supply/Two Less Lonely People In the World  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Furniture, feng shui, bedknobs and broomsticks.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: Alas, if it were only true .  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop. If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Two Less Lonely People In the World  
by Mik

I have to admit this is the first time I've felt awkward around him. I'm accustomed to instilling fear and uncertainty in him, making him feel like the awkward one. Tonight he seems almost like a different man. No, he seems like the man I wanted him to be all along.

He proposed to me. Marriage. Commitment. I'm not so smug that I don't realize he got swept away by the moment. After all, the woman he had loved for the last eight years was suddenly the legal wife of another man. Why shouldn't he want parity and want it now? Still, I don't deny the flood of feeling his offhand question precipitated. 

And I stood there, outwardly calm, sipping the last of my champagne, pretending he had suggested nothing more momentous than a midnight movie. "Sure," I said. "When?"

He had been looking at the statue of the Virgin Mary and he frowned at it, as if he was expecting information and She had not been forthcoming. "What does it take for two men to get married these days?"

I smiled at him and then at the statue. "A miracle?"

"Well . we could drive to Vermont and have a commitment ceremony," he said thoughtfully.

I shook my head. "You have to be a resident in order for them to recognize it as legally binding. We can have a commitment ceremony anywhere. It just won't be a legal union." I reached for his hand. "Do you promise to remain committed to me?"

He surprised me by shaking me off. At first I thought he was concerned that someone would see me making physical contact with him. Then he added, almost impatiently. "No. I want to do this right. Okay, a commitment ceremony. We'll do it. Friends and family . you know . all that stuff. How many times does a guy get committed, anyway?" He grinned. "Granted, with me it's sort of an annual event, isn't it?"

And now we're home. Home, we've decided, will be my condominium for the time being. I couldn't live in that little hole he calls home. It's hard enough to spend Friday nights there. I watch him move around the living room as if examining a crime scene. He considers the arrangement of pictures on the wall, the stacks of music and movies on my entertainment center. He touches everything. Sniffs at liquor decanters, rubs wallpaper. He even fondles the fabric of the chairs. I can see him, like some long tailed alley cat which someone is attempting to domesticate, and he's marking the territory as his own. 

I remain in the foyer, feeling I must wait for permission to enter, even though this is my home . the signature on the mortgage papers says so. Regardless of what is lawful, moral and binding, Mulder is taking over now, and I wait. 

He tilts his head up, considering the vaulted ceiling, the track lighting that shines down on the fireplace, the chair I read in, pulled up at a less than feng shui angle so I can take the air of the fire, and enjoy the light on my book. From his expression, I can see him seeing me there, and all the nights I've spent there, alone, a solitary figure, in his solitary pursuits. What I do not see, and am grateful for the absence of, is pity. There is only comprehension there. He, too, has been a solitary animal. 

"Coffee?" It's the only word I can manage. 

He doesn't look up. His gaze is still fixed on the chair. He merely nods.

When I return, after grinding and filling and filtering and pushing, he has shoved another chair, the big chair-and-a-half that came with the sofa, up next to my reading chair. He frowns at it, looks up at the lights, and pushes the chair around, so that it can now face my reading chair. I see what he's saying, so symbolically. Rather than move the sofa, a statement of two blending lives, joined bodies, melded purposes, he's saying we will be solitary, together. He looks at me, and there is an almost sheepish expression in his eyes. "We can always put it back when we have company."

I nod, accepting the future he's laying out for us. "Coffee's going." I look around the room. "There's a bedroom down here, and two up there. I use the second one for my office, but we can change that, if you'd like."

He answers by taking the stairs, slowly, running his hand along the oak banister. I go back to the kitchen, disappointed. He doesn't want a marriage. Not the way I want a marriage. He wants to show Scully she's not the only one to get a mate. He doesn't want to be lonely on his own, anymore. He wants to be lonely with me. And yet, and this is the saddest part, I accept. 

As the coffee makes its final, and most persistent perk, I pull out coffee cups and search for cream and sugar. With my head in the refrigerator, I nearly miss the faint call. "Walt?"

I lift my head, frowning. Something not right. Something . concerned . alone? I push the door shut and take the stairs, two at a time. What has he found up there, the Cigarette Smoking Bastard napping on my bed? Krycek dead on my floor? Neither. Something more unexpected, exhilarating, terrifying. Mulder, naked, sitting at the edge of my bed. 

I come to a dumbfounded stop. He looks . almost beautiful. As beautiful as a long tailed alley cat can look. His body has always been a source of longing and fascination to me, lean, hard, marked by life, strong legs, almost graceful hands, but it is his face that catches and holds my attention. He looks slightly shy. He sits coyly at the side of the turned down bed, his hands between his long legs, covering that part of him I hunger for, just as his hair hangs down enough to cover his eyes. 

Not knowing what to say, I reach for my tie and start to tug. 

"Stop."

I stare at him, bewildered, almost angry. What the fuck is he doing sitting naked on my bed if --

He rises, unfolding himself, moving toward me. For the first time in the many, many years I've known him, he forces his way very deliberately into my personal space, leaning his warm flesh against my body as his artless fingers slide my tie away. He lifts his eyes to me as he unfastens the first two or three buttons. Then he licks his lips and lowers his mouth to my throat, my chest. Each button opened reveals more skin, more skin revealed receives more kisses. I stand still, breathless, not wanting to disturb or distract him. 

He works his way down the shirt, tugging it free of my slacks, pushing it off my shoulders, his mouth hot on my skin, his tongue exploring, his teeth grazing lightly. Fingers work my belt and zipper expertly, and he shifts and lifts my burgeoning erection to his mouth. He settles to his knees, his hands reaching up to tug down slacks and shorts, a soft contented sound coming from deep in his throat as he nurses on me. 

I can feel my knees tremble, my hands shake. I want to force him back, pin him down, claim him. But having become a master in the art of waiting, I display my mastery now . and wait.

His fingers glide over my thighs, up, around, over my buttocks, now across my belly. He is like a child, exploring the place he finds so comforting. Looking down, I see his eyes are closed, his face relaxed. I almost feel that he feels he's . come home. I have to smile.

He opens his eyes, looks up, smiles around me and eases himself away. Rising slowly, he meets my eyes. I see a faint blush steal over his face, and rush down his body. His cock is standing up, hard, insistent, between us. He looks down, sees that I am looking at him and he looks up again. Smiles. That sweet shyness is back, but there is more . a light burning deep in eyes I have never seen so green. He leans in again, teasing his way into my mouth, coaxing my tongue into his. His hands slip around my arms, and tighten. He is trembling. 

He pulls away. "Please ." he murmurs.

I take him in my arms, roughly, hungrily. I can no longer wait. I walk him backward to the bed, devouring his mouth. I let him fall into the mattress, and tumble down over him, pinning him, spreading his legs with mine, fingers tangling in his hair. "I want you so much," I growl, fastening on his neck, rutting against him.

I feel him arch against me. There is no struggle. There is no surrender. There is only complicity. He's mine, and he wants me. This is our commitment, alone, in this darkened room. No friends, no family, no legalities. This is my lover, and I am his. 

I search his eyes. I see that binding love there . it's been there for months, but I've been blinded by my own jealousy and insecurity, unable to see that he loves me. He wants me. This isn't about Scully. This is about me. And him. Us. I have a feeling that after tonight there will be two less lonely people in the world.

\- END -

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Air Supply/Having You Near Me  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. Sc/O. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: The real definition for 'getting lucky'.  
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Scully Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: Needed a schmoop fest. If you're diabetic, my apologies.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Having You Near Me  
by Mik

I still can't believe it. 

Even lying back in this bed, listening to her breathe, feeling the warmth rising off her small body, even rubbing the place where this brand new ring fits against my finger, it's still hard to assimilate. Even after a night of more romance than I have ever attempted, after a night of abandoned ardor, I can't quite take it in.

I always thought I'd be one of those men who moves through life single-oh. I've always stuck to the road, never tempted to turn off to explore a path, or even a bit of underbrush. I was groomed for the military from childhood, just as my father was, and his father. There was supposed to be this very small window of opportunity for me to marry and carry on the family line. And since I didn't marry one of the available heiresses loitering around the gates of Annapolis when I graduated, it was expected I'd just have discreet relationships and devote myself to God, flag and country.

Then I met her. 

It was a Christmas party at the Officer's Club, and her brother introduced us. All the other women were wearing long gaudy Christmas-y get ups of red or green or a combination thereof. She was dressed in something simple, straight, soft and black. I remember it was soft because it brushed against my hand as she turned and said 'How do you do?' I was thunderstruck. Small, sparkling hair, sparkling eyes, wise but sad smile. That was what caught me. There was something about her that made me want to know what she'd seen in her life to make her smile like that. For the first time in my life, I wanted to peer into the underbrush, do more than just glance down that darkly wooded path. 

It only took a couple of dates to know she was the one.

And could a woman be more perfect for me? She was everything I wanted. A medical education, a military childhood, a newly revitalized Catholicism. She was demure with a subterranean passion that threatened to turn me to ash and bone. She worked for the FBI, which fascinated me, but she assured me her work was dull, mundane. Yet she hinted that she had once been involved in so much more. She never gave details but I asked around a bit and discovered that she had, at one time, been assigned to some obscure, top secret investigation of paranormal activities; ghosts and aliens and that sort of thing. I could never coax a confirmation from her, but I found she was so much more open to unexplained events than anyone I'd ever known. It frightened me a little. After all, there was one thing I understood. America. America's military supremacy. The world's biggest guns, making the world's biggest holes. Dana saw things I couldn't believe in. 

But it wasn't that willingness to believe that put a shadow in her smile. It was something else. or more accurately someone else. I'm not the world's smartest man, but it didn't take long for me to ascertain that there was a someone in her life, an unrequited love, a 'should have been that never was'. It was, so far as I could see, the only obstacle between she and me becoming a we.

It took me a long time to get the nerve to ask her. She never paraded her feelings before me. She was remarkably considerate about that. She always smiled for me when I came near, she never called anyone else's name in the peak of desire, she had no hidden cache of love letters or photos or odd little trinkets to suggest a fire where embers still glowed. But there was something. Maybe it was just the way she sighed when we finished making love. Or the way she looked up into the night sky. Or maybe it was the complete dearth of love letters, photos and trinkets. A sure sign that she was 'starting over'. 

But I did ask. I had to. There was something else, you see, something bigger that I wanted to ask her and I had to clear this ex lover out of the road before I could proceed. And she smiled. That smile. She talked. In little sentences and smaller gestures, she painted a picture of a man who never saw, or wanted or needed her love. She painted a picture of a fool.

So I blundered ahead. I asked her to marry me. And he still stood between us. She accepted, but I could still feel him there. That's why I insisted that she see him, talk to him, invite him to the wedding. 

He turned out to be one of those tall/dark/handsome types with a permanent sneer and a nice suit. A really nice suit. And a boyfriend. Affirmative. The man was gay. But even so, he stood between us. I was sorry we invited him to the wedding.

The wedding. We're married. I did it, we did it. And now I have her beside me. I hope some day to take the shadows away from her smile. 

\- END -

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Air Supply/Even the Nights Are Better  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Mister Bubble is an aphrodisiac.  
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: Needed a schmoop fest. If you're diabetic, my apologies.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Even the Nights Are Better  
by Mik

Here he tumbles into the kitchen, a riot of brown silk, sleepy eyes and a slightly shy smile, my discarded pajama pants threatening to slide from his hips at any movement. "You're a nag," he tells me, lurching toward the coffeepot.

"You're the one who promised we'd drive them to the airport so she wouldn't have to come back alone."

"I am?" His drowsy eyes open a fraction. "I'm one hell of a nice guy."

I ease the coffee cup from his fingers before he lets go. "You are." I prove it by planting a kiss to sleep warmed, kiss bruised lips. "Do you think they know?"

He laughs deep in his throat. "Walt, the only people who don't know are a couple of pig farmers in Ohio." He lets himself sag into a chair.

I put the coffee in front of him and brush hair from his eyes. "Do you mind?"

He slurps coffee and points at my phone. "Get me the number for those pig farmers and I'll tell them myself." He sniffs. "I believe someone said. waffles?"

"And he called me a nag." I turn and pour batter into the waffle maker. It feels good having him here. Our house. Our place . that's what he called it on the way back from the wedding. I felt so good when he said that. This place has never been a place in the sense of belonging to someone, even me. It's been a house, never a home. Days spent here have always been a series of routines and chores. Nights . nights have been empty and long. Despite the frustrating chastity of our relationship, the nights spent in Mulder's bed, in his nearness, in his . what did he say? . his warm, were better than any night I've spent here. 

Well, until last night, that is. I don't know who flipped the switch in this little sex . no, he's no kitten. He's an ocelot, a lynx. Long, lazy loping feline, who was suddenly in heat last night. All paws and whiskers and hot breath. Last night he was a predator and I was his prey, and the predator twitched and sniffed all over me as if I was his very first kill, lapped at me as if savoring first blood, rubbing against me, marking my carcass as his. And roared and purred. And laughed. 

I bring him a plate, a golden brown circle of symmetrical squares, with butter just beginning to pool. He gapes at me in wonder, and I have to say I'm feeling pretty proud. He pours syrup, cuts, bites, chews and sighs. "Umm . Walt . I can't cook like this, you know. Tomorrow's breakfast will probably be stale Fritos and milk with a questionable code date." He has butter on his finger and he sucks it away. 

Oh, shit . I'll eat stale Fritos and old milk if I can watch him do that for the rest of my life.

I think he mistakes my gobstopped expression for horror because he puts both hands up in a conciliatory manner. "Okay, okay . I'll learn to make cereal or . or . toast. I promise."

I shake myself out of my sexual reverie and look down at his plate. "Will you want another?"

He nods and attacks the waffle with the same lust he displayed for my body last night. He's a hedonist and I never noticed it before. I turn and pour batter, watching it spill out into the no-stick form. Tonight . tonight I will be the predator. "Fox?" I reach for his plate just as he puts the last bite into his mouth and flicks his tongue over a fingertip to catch a bit of syrup.

He holds the plate out to me, chewing. "Hmm?"

"Ever taken a bubble bath?" Slippery, soaped flesh, buoyed by steamy water, trapped in my arms. Heated, softened skin, relaxed muscles, easy entry. The slap of water against the tub in contrast to the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Face wet with bath, and sweat and tears. Salty, soapy lips, puckered nipples, fiery tightness. I can already hear him moaning and begging.

Actually I hear him snicker as I pull the waffle up and put it on his plate.

"Umm . well ." he lowers his voice and his eyes as I bring the second waffle to him. ". yeah, I have."

I smile over his lowered head. Oh, yes . tonight. "Would you like to have one with me tonight?"

He's taking another bite. "Really?" he says, licking his lips and chewing. "I never saw you as the." he stops because he has met my eyes. I know he can see every thought. "Uhh . yeah, Walt." He swallows. "I'd like that."

*******************************************

I have now seen everything. The lynx is in my tub, up to his pointy ears in mounds of glistening white bubbles. I'm not sure when or how, because I thought he was at my side every minute of this day, but he has somehow managed to procure a bottle of bubbles with a cartoon figure head for a cap, and has emptied half of it into my bath. As I step into the room, one long, lean leg rises from the soapy sea and waggles at me languidly. I laugh and start collecting the clothes he shed like lynx fur all over the floor. "Who the hell do you think you are? Jayne Mansfield?"

He's admiring a very bubbly leg. "Who?"

"Never mind, before your time, child." I bring my robe in and hang it behind the door. As I begin to undress, I hear a very distinctive squeak. When I turn, he has . I swear it . a rubber duck. "Speaking of children, what is that?"

"A ducky," he tells me, and squeaks it at me. "I have a battleship in here somewhere." He splashes around in the bubbles for it.

I press a hand to his brow, and look down at him, concerned. "I didn't realize you were allergic to bubbles. Have they always brought about this mildly psychotic reaction?" 

"Oh, yeah, I probably should have told you." He looks at me, frowning. "Walt, bubble baths make me incredibly hot. A regular nympho. I'm probably going to have carnal knowledge of my ducky, here. You'd better leave soon. It will be ugly."

I reach in and ease the duck from his fingers. "I guess I'll just have to sacrifice myself, then." I lean over him and kiss him deeply. "I want you. So much."

He kisses back. "Yeah? Prove it."

I step in and settle down into the extremely hot water and straddle his thighs. His rigid cock is already bobbing between us. I give it an affectionate squeeze before I gather him against me, kissing, licking, nipping, lifting him, letting my hands roam down his back, and fondle his butt. 

He moans and shudders against me. Then settles those lynx-like fangs against my throat, sucking hard.

I press a fingertip against his opening, and rub, waiting to feel if it will give, just a little. At the first sign of surrender, I pull him closer and roll carefully, to put him on top of me. As I brace myself against the floor of the tub, I feel a sharp pain and let out a cry, arching up and dislodging him.

He comes up from the water where I spilled him, coughing. "What is it? What happened? Walt? Are you okay?"

I reach under my hip to find what impaled me. "Yeah, but I think I sunk your battleship."

He tugs the toy from my hand and tosses it out onto the floor. "Man the torpedoes, Walt." He climbs on top of me and lays himself the length of my body, catching my cock between his legs. "Full speed ahead."

\- END -

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Air Supply/I Just Like The Feeling  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Wake up calls, whispers, waffles and . um . wuvin'?  
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist .  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: Needed a schmoop fest. If you're diabetic, my apologies.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

I Just Like the Feeling  
by Mik

I have a confession to make. Me. The guy who has lived most of his life alone, by choice. Not necessarily my choice, mind . but . ah, we won't go there, will we? The point is I like his warm.

You don't know what warm is? Oh, no, I'm not talking about the OED definition, not about temperature. Warm, in this case, is a place, is a . state of mind for the body. It's that place your lover leaves behind when he gets up and leaves your bed. Usually the warm is a very cold place.

Not with him. It took me a while to believe that he'd come back. I mean I know I'm not the most encouraging lover in the world. For months after he slipped his arms around me and held me in place as I fell apart, I still resisted him. It was. it was surreal. Walter Sergei Skinner, my boss, my sometimes enemy, held out an unconditional love. He stayed by me all those nights when I wouldn't let him touch me, wouldn't let him hold me, wouldn't let him even say the words I needed to hear.

*******************************************

I felt his breath in my ear. His voice was deep, rich, and aptly enough, warm. "Fox . We'll be late."

"Mmmmph."

*******************************************

I think for a long time he despaired of ever feeling close to me. Yet there he was, night after night, stubbornly climbing into my bed, stubbornly waiting for the night he could do more than kiss my cheek while I remained still and rigid, practically holding my breath in fear that he might do more. But even though each night I built a wall between us, each morning he got up and said 'I'll see you tonight.' And each night he was there.

He was good to me. He listened. Oh, my God, did the poor man listen. He had to hear every fleeting thought about Scully that ever padded barefoot across my brain. He got soaked in my tears. And when the water receded, and I found out I wasn't just a mudslide rushing toward the riverbed, I had to admire him for standing there, hip deep in the detritus of my grief and regret and not even looking as if it disturbed him, actually looking as if he was damned glad to be there. 

I think it was somewhere in the middle of that mudslide that my feelings started to change. And it started with noticing the warm.

*******************************************

"Come on, baby." His tongue was wet on my neck. "We promised we'd be there."

I flicked my hand impatiently backward, trying to make him go away, let me finish my memories.

*******************************************

It was a cold day . a Saturday morning, the day I discovered it. It had snowed in the night, and we'd left the window open a crack. Now there was snow on the sill. And I could see his breath as he rolled over, stretched and stumbled toward the bathroom, gathering up his clothing as he went. Looking back, it seems unbelievable that when presented with a body like that, all I saw was his breath.

Before he left the bed, he reached out and gently pulled the blankets over my shoulder. But the bed was cold without him. I was tempted to call him back. I didn't, of course. I wasn't quite ready to admit that he was anything more than a stopgap, a little dam to stop the flow of my loss, a tourniquet drawn tight around my heart before I bled to death. 

I could hear him in the bathroom, peeing, flushing, washing his hands, stumbling around to get into his clothes without coming back in and turning the light on in my bedroom. I rolled over. I found it. His warm. The place where his body had filled the bed all night, and the heat of that body lingered like sunshine on sand after sunset. Without even thinking, I wriggled into it, let it envelop me. And I drifted off to sleep, for the first time, content.

*******************************************

He was sucking my neck again. Oh, when he did that last night . "Come on, Fox. I'll fix breakfast. Come on down." That voice, so warm, so full of promise. The man could make eggs sound erotic.

I grunted in reply, my eyes still shut, my body still boneless and placid. And warm.

*******************************************

Last night. Last night, I had planned this big scene. Not so much seduction as surrender. The big night, the big act. Going all the way, as we said in school. I was ready. So ready. And in love. Yeah, I'd loved him for a long while now, but yesterday, at Scully's wedding, I realized I was in love. In love enough to want to be married, or as close as two men could get, in love enough to be willing to spread my legs and take him inside me literally as well as metaphorically. 

Oh, I had it so beautifully planned. Wanted to come back to his place, thinking his bed was so much nicer than mine. Wanted to tease and arouse and seduce him. Wanted to make him want me. Last night, always, forever. 

Naturally, it didn't go as planned. We were both so worked up by the time we got in bed that just a few touches, a kiss here and there, a little rocking and rolling . but what a rock, what a roll. We came on contact, as it were. And then . oh, then! He started to laugh. Not embarrassed, not mocking, just full bodied, happy laughter. It was like an orgasm in itself. Made me feel good. Made me laugh. So we enjoyed simultaneous humor.

*******************************************

His hand stroked down under the blankets, rubbing the point where my back gives up to my ass. A very sensitive place, I've learned. One finger stroking the top of my crack. "Come on, baby."

I shivered. But I didn't move. I wasn't going to 'til the warm was over.

*******************************************

When the laughter subsided, he held me close, kissed me, told me things he'd never told me. Told me how much he loved me, how he feared losing me. I promised him breathlessly, he couldn't lose me, no fucking way, not now. But I understood his fear. I held tight and promised. Again and again.

His hands slipped down my back. I'll always remember how big they felt, so warm. Kissing me, he cupped my ass in his hands and spread it open. I know I was a little nervous, I know I trembled just a little. He broke the kiss and promised that he wasn't going to hurt me.

Last night . well, we never did *it*, but we got comfortable with each other. He touched me, let me explore him. We kissed a lot. Laughed some more. Tasted, rubbed, caressed, came. I fell asleep in his arms.

*******************************************

A persistent finger slid down and brushed my anus. "Fox, you can get up and get ready to go, or I'm calling Scully and telling her you can't take them to the airport because you're losing your virginity."

"You wouldn't," I murmured, nestling into the bedclothes.

"You're right." His finger disappeared, and he slapped my ass. "I wouldn't. Now get up. I'm making waffles."

"Mmmmmph." I burrowed my face into his pillow. It was still warm. 

"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping in your warm," I mumbled.

"My what?"

Reluctantly, I rolled over. Oh, that shining star of a smile. "Your warm," I tell him sleepily. "The place where you were before you got up."

He gathered me into his arms, and kissed me. "Have I mentioned that I love you?" He asked gently.

I stretched and yawned, trusting him to hold me. Trusting he wouldn't let me go. "Not since about three this morning. I was starting to be concerned."

"I love you." He eased me back into the bed. "And tomorrow you can fix breakfast, so I can try out this . warm."

\- END -

  
Archived: July 04, 2001 


End file.
